


colorblind

by ndnickerson



Series: Red Label [23]
Category: Nancy Drew - Carolyn Keene
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, F/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-12
Updated: 2011-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-25 23:37:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ndnickerson/pseuds/ndnickerson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It could have made his career, if he had ever been able to figure it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	colorblind

It brings him out of darkness, bodily as falling, like breaking the surface. The sound of a gunshot and the echoing, shrill sound of a woman's scream. The scream sounds familiar somehow and when Ned's hand moves, it is in a compulsive jerk, tightening, thudding a fist against his chest before his eyes even open.

A scream.

Ned blinks a few times, a frown creasing between his brows until he dismisses the dream, what must have been a dream. He stretches and yawns, his arms sweeping out, brushing the other side of the bed, empty and cool.

His own skin feels strange to him. He should never drink on Sunday, he knows that. Sweat has turned to grit in his pores, and a raspy stub of beard burns the heel of his hand as he swipes at his face.

It is his mother's birthday today.

He rubs sleep from his eyes as he faces the bathroom mirror, making a mental note to remind the landlord that the toilet in his apartment is still perpetually running. He doesn't see the outdated pale-green tile in the shower or the dirt rubbed into the grout. It's his mother's birthday.

While he pours the coffee he absently, nonsensically counts his fingers, his class ring, his watch. His kitchen is a shamble of fast-food remains and sticky dishes, the sink a mass of dirty mugs. He needs to clean. He needs to sort through it all, get the apartment ready for viewing, find something closer to work. Over the weekend. Put the bottles away and make it all presentable.

Except that the girls he brings home don't really care what his sink looks like, and any girl who clucked and tisked over his dismal lack of housekeeping was already picturing herself as a fixture in his life.

He heads out at lunch, in his suit, sleeves already rolled up, to find a bouquet. Bill is going over the crime scene data from a month-old murder, one he hopes will make their career. In the lowest drawer of Ned's desk is the folder, the file, the case Ned knew would have made his career, the case Ned knows will make his career if he can ever solve it.

He shakes it off and walks into a flower shop, the kind frequented by men looking for flowers at the last possible second, even after. The window features garish arrangements, old vases with fluted rims, teddy bears and tiny balloons on plastic straws. He picks out a simple mix of daisies and roses and signs the card with a flourish.

She's going to say something about children, about grandchildren. About him settling down with someone special. It will be subtle and it will make him feel like shit.

He puts the bouquet on his desk, to wait until he gets off work. Michelle makes a comment about it. Bill teases him. Ned just smiles. She will say that she doesn't want anything, that just seeing him was enough.

He leaves a few minutes early, takes the shortcut back to Mapleton, tuning into a station playing songs he remembers from high school. It doesn't feel like so long ago, not like this, not with his bare forearm hanging just over the lip of the window, fingers beating a light tattoo on the steering wheel.

He hasn't felt this good in ages. With every moment that passes, every mile he travels, the thought of seeing his mother, of seeing both his parents, makes him happier than he has felt in a long time.

"Ned!"

Edith Nickerson. Her hair is streaked with just a bit more grey than he remembers, but when she throws her arms around him, he closes his eyes, and it feels like home, more than his apartment ever has, more than anything has. She gives him a squeeze and releases him, and it's like Christmas morning, somehow.

He can actually almost feel tears in his eyes, and he's almost ashamed.

"Ned! It's been too long."

His father. Ned's father. He has his reading glasses on. They embrace warmly, as Ned's mother laughs in delight at the bouquet.

His father shows him the new television set, and his mother shows him the afghan she's been working on, and that's when she says it's for him, that maybe he can find some special girl and take her to a football game, wrap it over their laps for warmth.

There is something she's not saying, and the enormity of it is enough to shake him to his core.

The house is just as he remembers it, really. His room is the same as he left it, the way he remembered it from one last glance the day he left for Emerson.

(Blue eyes. Blue eyes.)

His mother brings out the chicken casserole, the rolls, cuts her boys generous slices of chocolate cake, and they sing happy birthday over the three candles, the wax dripping hypnotic down onto the sea of chocolate icing. They sit down on the couch, with Ned between, and watch the news, the sports recaps, Edith's hands moving rhythmically as she works on another afghan, this one in Emerson colors.

"Do you want to stay for Jeopardy?"

"I shouldn't," Ned says, but the look on his mother's face is too much, and so he shouts out the answers and crows when he's right, mutters when he's wrong. For the first time in a long time he doesn't want a beer, doesn't want something to dull him.

His skin still somehow doesn't feel like his own.

When he says goodbye they make plans for the weekend, to grab brunch, maybe even see a movie. He hugs them both, grateful that they're still here, that they are here for him, that they love him so much.

The moon is high in the sky when he stops at the gas station. The pumps are all occupied, and when he finally pulls into one, he finds that the credit card reader is busted.

He sees a flash of blonde hair when he steps into the line at the cash register, and for the first time he can remember that day, his heart beats, seizes hard. Blonde hair. Blue eyes.

She doesn't look quite right. It's Nikki Masters, in front of him in line, and when she sees him she smiles, but then something like fear passes over her face.

"It's good to see you, Nikki."

"It's good to see you too," she says, toying idly with the zipper pull of her coat. "I was going to come see you today, but I ran out of time. I remembered... something."

"Next in line," the cashier says impatiently, and Nikki steps forward, an apologetic look on her face. He waits for her, pays for his own gas, then immediately turns to face her, his interest piqued.

Nikki is the only girl they know of, who ever survived. It is the case that Ned knows could rewrite his history, could put him on the fast track in the department. The FBI failed to crack it, and he kept going back to Nikki, kept willing that one clue, the one that could break the case wide open. Together they had driven all over River Heights and its outskirts, retraced all the steps she knew, to no avail.

"This weekend I was on the highway and that smell, that strange smell I told you about, the one that was so strong? It was a highway being repaved. Hot tar."

They went everywhere. Ned can recall it so vividly, his frustration, her apologies. But there was one place they hadn't gone.

"The old brick plant."

"Yeah. The old brick plant." Nikki adjusts her purse strap. "I thought I should tell you."

He doesn't take her; he can't. Really, he shouldn't even be going himself, not alone, not without Bill and a team and an unbroken chain of evidence. But he can't help it. He makes a few wrong turns but ends up at the brick plant, the gates long rusted. He takes the flashlight from his trunk and plays it over the heavy chains, and he knows what he will find, long before he does. A knot of chains thick as his fist and newer than the rest. A padlock that doesn't match the others.

Here is where he held Nikki.

Without stopping to think about it, Ned climbs the fence, wincing as the overgrown vines and wire points snatch at his clothes. The tall grass waves unbroken in the beam from his flashlight, save for one corner.

He knows. He's always known it. He knew what Nikki didn't; that the day she was released, Nancy—

(he chokes at the memory of her name)

Nancy vanished that day and none of them ever say it out loud, none of them could bring themselves to say it out loud. She had been interested in the case, even moreso when Nikki had been abducted. She had wanted to help.

They never found her.

When he sees that patch of ground, a few paltry shoots of grass, he knows.

He has no shovel, nothing with him, just his hands. He strips off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves and moves the earth handful by handful, gently, wishing that he's wrong.

She hadn't been his girlfriend anymore, not then. It hadn't changed anything. He had still loved her, had never stopped. He had been sure that whatever was between them, it wasn't over.

His fingers dig through roots and rocks, through the pack of earth, and then he touches—

 _No_ , he thinks. _No._

Her face. When he touches, when he uncovers her face, the skin gone grey and dim from the earth, her blue eyes closed now and ever in death, he remembers. He knows.

  
_This is what it took. This is what it would have taken, this is what I would have had to lose._   


Her life for theirs.

He can feel his blood, can feel it rising hot in his face, hot tears in his eyes.

He lost her. For them. He sees his parents again, his mother's eyes unnaturally bright, his father's smile broad, can feel their arms around him again, warm as a heartbeat. A ragged faded-red gash at Nancy's temple, choked with earth, a bullet wound. Her scream in the dark. The scream that woke him. He imagines her begging for her life, her blue eyes swimming with tears, wrists bound above her, screaming for him, knows that it was worse for her, but he never came. He could not save her. He cannot save her.

He screams, then, screams and screams and cannot stop, until his voice is breaking and torn and raw. He's lost her, lost Jamie. All gone.

\--

"Ned."

He opens his fist and doesn't feel the chalky grit of dirt in his hand. He opens his eyes.

Nancy is staring at him. She's on the other side of the bed, facing him across the pillows.

She's alive. Unless he's still dreaming.

His voice, when it finally comes out, is thick with sleep, with the tears he can feel on his face. "Are you okay? Is Jamie okay?"

Something in his expression or tone gets to her, because he hasn't even finished talking when she slides out of bed, hits the ground running. He rolls out of bed to follow and his muscles ache, like he has held himself tense for hours.

They stand, not touching, in the doorway to Jamie's room. Nancy's hair is longer, now, in a red-gold tangle down her back, gleaming where the first low sun touches it. She has one palm on the doorframe and her other hand is in a fist, in a t-shirt and panties, and her lips are parted. Just the flutter of the fringe of her lashes is enough to make him ache. Ned glances from her to his son, Jamie, one of his small fists loose on the pillow beside his flushed cheek. The sunlight is tangible in that room, touching the dust motes as they drift ever down.

Ned's face is still wet and he can only breathe through his mouth, and Nancy closes Jamie's door and their hands find each other.

He has to clear his throat to speak. "Nash," he says, and it's almost a croak, and she turns to him, just inside their bedroom, her blue eyes sharp.

"You killed him," she says slowly, bringing her hand up. At the touch of her fingers on his cheek Ned closes his eyes, unable to stop relieved tears from rising. "He's gone, Ned. Not coming back. Is that what you had a nightmare about?"

In answer he picks her up, and she lets out a soft sigh of surprise. She's still miles of long shapely legs, but they're a week away from telling everyone about the baby, and even though she's ridiculously preoccupied with the size of her infinitesimal potbelly, he loves it on her, loves that soft glow on her skin, the new weight of her breasts. She's warm and breathing and when he presses his lips to her chest, he can feel her heart beating through the thin fabric of her t-shirt.

She runs her fingers through his hair, and when he doesn't answer she wraps her legs around his waist, sighing when he nuzzles against her breasts. He steps forward, until his knees hit the mattress, and releases her, and she's sitting there, her legs still open and wrapped around him, gazing up at him. There is such sympathy on her face, concern tempered with something else, and when he reaches for the hem of her shirt she raises her arms obediently, letting him strip it off.

He climbs back into bed with her and they have an hour before the alarm will go off. He's exhausted, and he knows that she is, but she just wraps an arm around his shoulders when he settles with his ear just over her heart, lulled by the soft muffled thump of it.

She's absently, rhythmically stroking her fingers through his hair, her nails just gently playing over his scalp, and he lets out a contented sigh just before she says, "Do I want to know?"

He keeps hearing the question playing in his head, but he doesn't want to know the answer. Even so, he can't stop himself. He blinks a tear onto her bare breast and whispers, "What would you give up, to have her back?"

She's silent for a long, long time, but he can't bring himself to look at her face, and when he finally hears her voice, it's half-choked, rusty with tears. "I don't know," she says. "What did you give up?"

"They were alive but Nash had killed you," Ned says, so softly, cupping her other breast as he listens to her heartbeat. "I found you in the ground at the old brick plant and I knew. There was a hole in your head." He pushes back and her blue eyes are swimming with tears as she gazes up at him, as he touches her temple. "You and Jamie..."

She brushes her thumb over his mouth as he trails off, speechless at the terrible memory of his loss. "It's not like that," she whispers. "But I couldn't trade you and Jamie to get her back. I could never make that choice."

He nods. His thumb is still stroking her temple. "I want to kiss you."

Her lips quirk up in a watery smile. "Come on."

They stand side by side at the mirror in their bathroom and brush their teeth, and once he's spat out a mouthful of lather and rinsed his mouth, he turns only to see her splashing water on her face. A few drops of the water slide down her neck, creeping down the curve of her bare breasts, and he steps up behind her, sliding his arms around her.

She rinses her hands and turns around, bringing her palms to his face, her wet thumbs brushing away the dried tears as he leans down. In the space between she tilts her head and her chin rises and her mouth is wet and hot under his.

Making out with her has always reminded him of when they were dating, before, when even the rare slide of her tongue in his mouth was enough to make him hard. Now her breasts are bare, pressed to his chest, and he boosts her against the countertop, the glass perfume bottles and soap dishes rattling from the impact as she runs her hands through his hair. Her legs are wrapped around his waist and he rakes his short nails down her back, grasping her panties. She makes a soft noise and bucks against him, and when he pulls back the slightest inch she whispers, "In bed."

They're naked by the time they reach the bed again, their mouths still joined, and he sits down with her in his lap, cupping her breasts. She makes soft pleased noises as he rolls her nipples between thumb and forefinger, and when she pulls back, rising on her knees, he suckles one, smiling when she slides her arm around his shoulders, holding him to her breast.

Their alarm goes off, startling them both, and she smacks the alarm clock, silencing the shrill chime and sending it crashing to the floor. He latches onto her other breast and they tumble into the bed, desperate, scrabbling at each other until she wraps her legs around him. He rolls on top of her, and their gazes lock.

His cock strains against her. She's so wet he can already feel it.

She didn't, she's not with him only because his parents died. It's not like that. It's not.

She's searching his gaze, and she caresses his cheek, responding to what must be written all over his face. "I love you," she says softly, her heels sliding up his back. "I love you so much, Ned."

He nods, capturing her mouth with his again, growling deep in his throat when she grasps his cock, guiding him to her.

It never gets old. He glides into her, slick and frictionless, inside her, and her body arches to cradle his, to allow him deeper. He breaks the kiss and groans, pulling out of her, beginning the familiar rhythm of their joining.

He watches her face and he knows every sign, when her lips part, when she darts her tongue out and her hips rotate under his, when she tilts her head back and her hands find her breasts, pinching her nipples urgently a few times before one hand slides between them.

He almost loses it when she first touches her clit and lets out a high gasp of pleasure, panting her breath back, her other hand kneading her breast. He takes her knees and pins them to the mattress and she cries out, writhing as he slams his cock fully between her thighs. "Ned," she sobs, and he pushes her hand aside, tugging at her nipples. When she rocks under him especially hard, he rolls with her, onto his back, taking her in. She's flushed, her lips parted, her hand still working between her legs as she slides her knees apart and takes him, shuddering when he tugs at her nipples again.

It's only when she plants her hands above his shoulders, using the leverage to lengthen and quicken her thrusts, Ned's finger rhythmically flicking her clit, that she finally begins to come, whimpering, her inner flesh spasming around him. He arches up, fucking her, driving hard between her thighs until she's begging incoherently, her eyebrows knit, and he feels that hot gush between her thighs and they cry out together, color high in her cheeks as they begin to come down.

She collapses to him and he pushes her hair aside, draws his fingertips down her spine. The baby. Their child. And she is whole and untouched.

"I love you," she whispers, and pushes herself up to look into his eyes. "I love you so much, Ned."

"And I love you."

All through the morning, as they shower together, as she rouses Jamie and makes them both breakfast, he can't stop gazing at both of them. When he's ready to go he picks up Jamie and hugs him until his son is squirming, laughing in his arms.

"Daddy!"

"I love you, Jamie," he tells him, dropping a kiss on his head. "I love you so much."

Jamie brushes the kiss away but laughs when Ned lifts him over his head, and he can feel Nancy's gaze on them as she sips at her decaf.

Her face, grey and slack, dirty, lifeless.

She smiles at him before she gets in the car, alive and vibrant. "Want to meet for lunch?"

"Love to."

Her kiss is careful, but when he pulls back her lipstick is a little smudged anyway. She swipes it off his lips with a grin.

"I would bring a little something, but that won't matter too much, will it."

He shakes his head. "Man, I love it when you're like this."

She glances down. "You mean when my boobs are growing by the hour?"

"Something like that."

Mapleton isn't on his way to work, and he waits until the weekend, when the dream is fading, when he doesn't have to keep touching his wife, his son's hand, to reassure himself that they are fine. Nancy's hand is in his, Jamie is propped on Ned's hip, as they walk up to the graves, the graves that to him will always be fresh, unnatural, painful as a knife through the chest.

"Grandma and Grandpa."

Jamie nods, his thumb straying toward his mouth, even though he hasn't sucked his thumb in months. "In heaven."

"Yeah," Nancy agrees, patting his back.

They go to River Heights and the house Nancy grew up in. He can remember walking her to her porch so many nights, slipping his hand into hers, stealing a kiss or two. Hannah's chocolate cake is still just as good as he remembers it, and when they all gather in the living room after, Hannah and Carson and the three of them, Ned remembers countless nights on the couch next to Nancy, watching a movie, casually sliding an arm around her shoulders. The speed of glaciers. They had moved at the speed of glaciers, the two of them.

"Ned and I have news," Nancy says, and Hannah's and Carson's gazes are immediately on them. Nancy smiles up at Ned and he strokes her side.

He hasn't lost them, not really, not forever. Not with his son and his wife here. Not as long as they remember. Carson claps Ned on the back in congratulations and Hannah asks Jamie how he will feel about a little brother or sister, and that terrible feeling finally fades.

When Nancy slides into his arms that night, in their bed, she caresses his cheek. "The house in Mapleton," she says softly.

"What about it?"

She kisses him, slowly, and when she pulls back he's holding her to him, flushing with desire for her. "Do you want to go there? Move there?"

He blinks until he can focus on what she's saying again. "Really?"

She touches his lips. "Not tomorrow or anything. Maybe once the baby's born."

He imagines it and doesn't see the look in her eyes when she says it; by the time he sees her again her smile is simple and genuine. "It's a good place to raise children."

"Must be," she says, her fingers drifting over his shoulder. "Look how you turned out."

An hour later, when she's sprawled boneless on her side of the bed, gasping her breath back, her hair clinging to the sweat on her cheeks, when Ned can feel exhaustion stealing over him, he slides a hand over her belly and she flinches, reflexively, her nerves still oversensitive. "Oh," she murmurs, turning to him.

"Boy or girl?"

"Girl," she pronounces immediately. "Or boy."

"We can put Jamie in my old room."

She smiles. "I like thinking of you in the backyard with him, throwing a football around, teaching him how to block."

He smiles. "And you can pick new carpet and new wallpaper..."

She runs her fingers through his hair, not quite looking at his eyes. "I love you so much, baby."

"I love you too." He kisses her chin, her earlobe, the side of her neck. For the first time in the longest time they fall asleep naked, in each other's arms, without worrying about Jamie coming in in the middle of the night.

And she is his. Whole and perfect and his.


End file.
